


Lonely Survivors

by blarghe



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Healing, Love, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Romantic Friendship, Sex, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25246330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarghe/pseuds/blarghe
Summary: A sequel/continuation of sorts to something I wrote about my Alistair/Cousland/Zevran love story. You can find more about this trio in a couple of my other works, but most of it is here now. A love story about healing and growth over four parts. Sexy in the middle, but mostly soft.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Zevran Arainai, Alistair/Zevran Arainai/Female Warden, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	1. Pt. I: TRAGEDY

Her mind stops her short before she can finish her thoughts; the memories hurt, and everything in her pulls back. She cannot bear to put a voice to it, even an inner voice. She chokes when she remembers, wakes shaking from bad dreams. By day she is quiet, stone-faced and hard of heart. This is not who she was. In a day, who she was became uprooted and poisoned, from flower to weed. One day, she was Violet Cousland, and the next…

One day, her greatest hardship was the well-intentioned pestering of a concerned mother. 

One day, her best friend in the world was an older brother, always there when she needed him. 

One day, she was the apple of her father’s eye, his doted-upon daughter, his little pup.

One day, little Orin's smile was the brightest light in the whole house, his toys on the floor the bane of her existence, the sight of him sleeping the surest proof she had of miracles.

One day, she was Violet Cousland, a Teyrn’s daughter, a rebellious child. 

One day, she had a home, a life, a loving family, and the next, it was taken from her.

Blood stains the walls of her house. Betrayal salts the earth of her heart. Her nephew’s dead eyes peer into her soul, leaving it empty. 

Once, she was Violet Cousland.

Now, she is no one. 

\----

She walks through the camp at Ostagar in a fog. She can hear the Chant coming from the soapbox of a Chantry sister, and the verses grate like knives scraped across fine china. The words her mother insisted she sing in service each week promise hope, but she only finds regret. Her mother always wished that she would pray, but now she can see no point to it. Duncan has delivered her from certain death to certain death. Her mother wanted her to fight, to survive. She hates her for that. 

The first thing Alistair says to her is a joke. “One thing I love about the Blight is how it brings people together.” She does not laugh. He follows it with an exaggerated grin, a friendly introduction, jovial chatter. She doesn’t even look at him, and he rocks on his heels and whistles before leading her to Duncan’s fire to find her fellow recruits. Duncan sends them out for darkspawn blood, keeping secret a ritual that will bring them into the Grey Warden ranks, and tasks them with an errand: a stash to recover while they search the forest. The others ask why, but she simply agrees to do what she has been told. Somehow, she can sense that the Grey Wardens are different, stronger and lonelier than the other soldiers. Maybe it will suit her to be like them. 

She fights the darkspawn in the forest like one of Orin’s wind-up toys; point it in the right direction, and just let it go. They gather their blood and search for the Wardens’ stash. The other two recruits speculate and gossip, but she barely grunts. A witch interrupts their search, and notes that she is not afraid. She barely looks up. Trust the witch, she shrugs. Or don’t. Keep a hand at your weapon either way. 

\----

The ritual might kill her. She learns this too late to turn from it, but it doesn’t matter. She would have nowhere to turn. 

The ritual might kill her. She isn’t sure what that would change. 

The ritual does not kill her, but it does take one of the others. He foams at the mouth when he swallows the accursed draught, writhes on the ground in unholy agony, then stops. The sight of another body makes her want to vomit, but she doesn’t move. The other recruit does; he panics and is slain. The sight of another murder makes her want to run in fear, but instead she takes the cup, ready for a bitter end. The ritual doesn’t kill her. Her mother would be happy, she is mostly disappointed. 

She is denied her certain death again when the King tasks her to an errand with the other Grey Warden - Alistair, the joker. Alistair bickers with Duncan like a son to a father, and for a moment she is almost fond of them both. Duncan who saved her life, Alistair who is so eager to fight. She is like that too, when she doesn’t want to die. Mere days ago Duncan was a fascination, a warrior to envy. He is still kind, still measured and calm. He looks at her with sympathetic eyes, and she knows that at least this warrior understands. If she survives, like her mother wanted her to, then she will make him train her to fight. If she cannot join her family in death, then she will avenge them. 

She fights the darkspawn in the tower without watching to see who else has fallen. Soldiers run and scream and bleed, the roar of the battle from the field below echoes around her like a thunderstorm, punctured with the clashing of steel. Alistair blocks arrows from piercing her light armour with his shield. She presses through the hoards in a manic frenzy, reckless with adrenaline. She has never killed anything but fowl before, but killing darkspawn is like killing evil itself, so she does it again, and again, and again. If her body is tiring, she does not feel it. Alistair struggles to keep up, keeps her alive without her noticing as she dives into unfair fight after unfair fight. 

They do their duty. They reach the top of the tower after slaying every foul creature and demon that infests it, and they finish their errand at the beacon. Another betrayal, and none of it matters. The signal is supposed to mark the charge, but General Loghain calls his forces to retreat. She wakes up in the witch’s hut, and everyone is dead. Her mother wanted her to survive. Duncan wanted them to save the world. Alistair is quiet now, his voice laden with the same grief as hers. They march away together, alone in the world. 

\----

They pick up aid in Lothering in the form of a crazed Chantry Sister named Leliana and a stoic Qunari called Sten. Violet likes the idea of a deadly Sister, and the Qunari makes her feel like she is not alone in her stony silence. She is alone in the world now, but she cannot _save_ it alone. She turns to Alistair for advice, he’s the real Warden, after all. He points her to the treaties they uncovered in the forest, a task of diplomacy, and asks her to lead. He is so filled with doubt that he sees her as the better choice of leader. She doesn’t tell him that they are the same, that the world is in the hands of two rebellious children, jokers who know little of reality, war, or death. Her persona to him is cold still, hard and strong. A survivor, maybe a hero. She does not tell him that he is wrong. 

Alistair talks to her about Duncan and the other Wardens; his lost family. He is hurt, and he is carrying on anyway. She tells him that she understands, and she does, more than he could possibly know. He thanks her and tells her how her listening has helped, and she is gentle for the first time in weeks. They vow to bring about justice for the Wardens’ betrayal. They will stop the Blight, they will end Loghain, they will fight the fight appointed to them until it is won or they are dead. She promises that they will be _partners_ in this task. She will not let him be less. 

Orin’s face is in her dreams at night. Alistair said that the worst part about becoming a Warden would be the dreams of darkspawn, but he was wrong. Darkspawn would be a welcome relief. The deaths have piled up so high now that she can’t see anything past her next steps. Just put one foot in front of the other, keep moving: her mother wanted her to survive. Alistair doesn’t know what she sees in her dreams, but she knows he understands. She sees him grieve for Duncan, and as near as she can tell, Duncan was all he had. 

She cannot talk about her family. Thoughts form unfinished in her mind when she least expects them, they catch her off guard and send her reeling. Little things jump out at her as unfriendly reminders without warning. A month into their travels, her hair starts to lose its colour. She hadn’t thought to tend to it, and her concocted tinctures must still be lying shattered on the floor of her childhood home. She remembers dyes made from the brightness of the garden - blues and pinks and yellows - pictures them muddied up with dark red blood. She catches a glimpse of a lock of her hair shining honey-blonde in the sun and her heart skips a beat. Honey-blonde like her mother’s. She spends an entire afternoon frantically raiding the forest floor for anything with colour. Blackberries, currants, clover flowers, and dark leafy herbs make a dye that is darker than what she used to wear, more muted and sweeter smelling, and she soaks it into her scalp for hours, just to be sure. Leliana calls her hair beautiful when it is done, and braids it sweetly while telling her all about radical Orlesian fashions. Alistair jokes about how her hair matches her name, Violet, and she laughs for the first time. She looks like herself again, and she can almost feel it. 

\----

Loghain the betrayer does not want them to live. He will throw Ferelden to the Blight for his pride and his power. They are hunted exiles, wanted as traitors to a Kingdom no one else can defend. His Crow assassins are easy to beat, and she should finish it, but the elf on the ground under her blade begs for his life, and she lets him have it. 

His name is Zevran, and she lets him live because she has seen bodies enough. She lets him live because he is defenceless, unarmed and beaten, and she will never be a _monster_. He may still kill her later, but she lets him live because even as some of her humour has returned, her world is still dark, and she does not care if she dies. He swears an oath to her, and while she cannot trust she cannot deny that it means something, and he joins the party with an easy demeanour, bringing stories and flirtation to the fireside when they make camp. 

Violet sleeps with Zevran because he offers; she sleeps with him because it distracts her and because it feels good. When he comes to her tent at night he brings complimentary words and deft fingers. He explores her body with skill and admiration, presses kisses into her with lively passion. It is fun, too fun, to feel his skin against hers and to have his hands on her breasts. She can’t remember how long it has been since she last had herself an ill-advised tryst, and even if the sex can’t mend her heart, she feels alive again when he makes her come. The assassin flirts with everyone, and somehow it gives the rebel in her permission to flirt again too. She begins to find fun in making Alistair blush, and she refuses to find shame in finding pleasure - not here, at the end of the world, not now. 

Her mother would hate Zevran, and a dark piece of her wants him more because of it. He is a nefarious devil, with too many experiences under his belt and words too forward and lewd. He is a foreigner, an elf, with a strong accent and a bloody past. He is beautiful and strong and dangerous, a little too old for her, and far too willing to please. Every time he fucks her, he does it like there may be no tomorrow, and it is perfect because he may be right. She loses herself in it, digs her nails into his back and wraps her legs tight around him; pins him to the ground beneath her and closes her eyes, grinding into him fast and heavy; tells him to take her like she is nothing but a vessel for his pleasure, toss her around, pull at her hair, leave her neck and hips and breasts with little purple reminders. 

He never takes her for granted, even when she wants him to. He asks her questions, guides them each to new heights of pleasure. Some nights they talk of more than just the pleasing functions of their bodies. She is kinder, makes more jokes, sometimes catches herself in the middle of a smile that is real. He tells her a little about the life of an assassin, and while he always spins his tales with an unaffected air, she senses their sameness behind his eyes.

One night, as they lie recovering their breath in the dark, he asks her tentatively about her life. He has told many stories, he says, but she is still such a mystery. He talks lightly, calls her merciful and beautiful and claims to be certain that her heart must come from a place of very high honour, indeed, to spare one so lowly as himself. 

She jokes that he could kill her like this, a knife in the night, finish the job he was hired for, and he is made uncomfortable by her words for the first time. He swore her an oath, he reminds her, but that only furthers his question: why would she allow such a man into her bed? She is a smart woman, a careful woman. What kind of smart, careful woman lets her would-be assassin live? What kind of merciful, good-hearted woman takes that assassin to bed? 

She shrugs, and for the first time, admits how little she cares. She is not special, she is cursed. She explains how she had begged to go to war, how she obsessed over the art of violence as a child. Zevran knows her as a Grey Warden, a member of an order of mythic heroes and soldiers. She tells him that the Couslands were nobility, and that she was never supposed to be this. She was supposed to marry, she was supposed to have children. She laughs a bitter laugh when she tells him how she had never wanted to, how she had fought for the chance to learn skill with a blade.

Zevran guesses at the next part, “and that is what saved you.” He concludes, and she nods. She had begged to go to war, and been denied. But in the night the war came to her, and she fought, and it was nothing like the exciting adventure she had dreamed about. He asks with still more hesitation how her first battles left her. From her home, she is the only survivor. From Ostagar, she and Alistair are the only survivors. 

“What a lonely thing to be,” the assassin muses as he kisses her skin, and his fingers stroke her fresh battle scars with soft understanding, “a survivor.” 


	2. Pt. II: FRIENDSHIP

Zevran did not expect to live through his encounter with two famed Grey Wardens, and he certainly did not expect to find a smirking young woman with purple hair pointing a dagger at his throat, but it felt a good enough way to die. At least the last thing he looked upon would be a pretty sight. He laid his charm on thick when he asked for his life, but he was still shocked that it worked. The woman lifted him from the ground with an offered hand and told him that if he had so much to offer, he should go ahead and fight alongside them, then. He was not the most devout man, but he was not one to take lightly a second chance given straight from the Maker. 

\----

Violet works with the seriousness and determination of someone much older. Her face is soft and her skin is far less laden with scars than his, but her eyes are dark and hungry. She fights wickedly, spends long hours discussing strategy with her compatriot Warden, hovers over vials of handcrafted poisons and fiddles dexterously with deadly traps. Her mood brightens when he flirts with her, so he does it again. She is a quiet mystery most of the time, but she laughs at her companions’ jokes and listens to their stories. He offers to warm her bedroll in a hopeful jest, and to his surprise she agrees. 

He has seen many bodies, younger and old, wrinkled, scarred, soft and firm. He knows all the ways to make a woman sigh, and his skill in this is one of the few things of which he is proud. Violet’s body fits into his like a glove, and she pleases him with eager touches, has as much fun in their relations as any woman he has ever known. She is an odd woman, he soon discovers; one who will laugh and scream when she comes, but who will not talk of herself. She asks for stories, follows direction and gives it as well, she jokes and flirts with almost as much gusto as himself, but she tosses in her sleep. 

She is a sweet woman, pretending to be hard. He sees her kindness when she does not mean to show it; in the way she consults the advice of her companions and asks them to voice their concerns, in the way she finds them all gifts in each new place they travel to, in the way her voice sounds when she finally tells him that her family is gone. She is a sad woman, pretending to be angry. 

His ongoing affair with Violet is a welcome surprise, but more surprising still is the true warmth her friendship offers. She spends time with him not just in the secret of night, but openly in the evenings by the fire of their camp. Before long he is a natural part of her unlikely band of heroes, forming rapports with the Chantry Sister, the other Warden, and even the witch. Morrigan is not so unfriendly as she seems, Sister Leliana is openly caring and kind, Alistair brings lightness to everything he does and even Sten, the great Qunari warrior, occasionally cracks a smile. 

Violet and Alistair lead the team, though really Violet has most of the final say. Alistair seems to prefer things that way, and Zevran cannot blame him. They journey across the country with one purpose in mind, but everywhere they go new problems seem to take up their attention. Violet is meticulous, she focuses on strategy and never enters a fight without a plan, but she is far from ruthless. He watches her spare many more lives after she gives him back his own. At the Circle of Magi she fights to rescue as many survivors as she can, and he has never known a noblewoman to care so much for the fates of mages. He sees her hastily wipe back tears when they walk through the apprentices' chambers, encountering the bodies of mages who were too young to see such cruelty.

They take on a new companion at the circle, a mage named Wynne who is the first person of their company to whom Zevran sees Violet actively show disdain. But for him, Wynne is another unlikely friend. She is spry, quick witted and tough, but also a gentle soul who fusses over all their wounds. Violet snipes sardonic little comments in response to all of Wynne’s concern, but when Zevran wishes to talk to the mage about it all, she refocuses the conversation on him. 

Wynne warns him to be honest with the Warden, and with himself. She sees to the bottom of his heart with ease, calls him a wounded soul, and Violet one as well. He is surprised to find her so forgiving, and so apt at returning his flirtation. She is unfazed by his history and his salacious tales, but she tells him to be careful with Violet, that she is clearly a child in pain. She does not seem to think him untrustworthy, only a man. Violet may lead, but to Wynne she is a girl in need of protection. She does not seem to mind that Violet treats her like a stifling mother at every turn. Zevran treats her like a woman of experience and wisdom, and she treats him like family. 

In the Crows, one does not have friends. Zevran has held people close to his heart before, and it has always ended in disaster. But these new companions feel different in a way he can’t explain. While Violet’s enthusiasm and growing trust are enlightening, he finds something completely _wonderful_ in Alistair. The other Warden is funny, like Violet, but without the harshness. He stumbles over words but never fails to land a blow, he reacts to every new situation with adorable innocence, and he is so disastrously fun to tease. He first notices the way Alistair blushes and stutters when it is brought out of him by Violet. The two are close, bonded by something secret that must run straight through their bones, for they fight together like a single entity; wordless and precise. Alistair is the last to trust him, but in time his faith becomes clear, and winning it feels like the most impossible achievement of Zevean's entire life. 

His friendship with Alistair begins because of Violet. She has dragged him so fully into the light that he can scarcely remember the shadows, and he joins the two Wardens in their evenings by the fireside with easy talk and Antivan cooking. It seems such a typical thing, for the giant puppy dog of a man to be won over by something as simple as food, but he is certain that it is where Alistair’s thoughts toward him begin to soften. Alistair fights like he cannot die, and while he is indeed a tough bastard, he does tire. One night, he begins to drift off before the fire dies, and his head falls onto Zevran’s shoulder. From that point on, the three become inseparably linked. Alistair laughs hesitantly in response to his flirtations, scoffs at his rude humour and deflects when he tries to talk of anything too mature, but he walks a little straighter and smiles a little more when Zevran is around, and one need not be as experienced as he is to guess why. 

Despite his protestations to Zevran’s offerings of affection, Alistair is more affectionate a friend than even Violet. He can fall asleep anywhere, it seems, but most often he falls asleep on top of him; a head on his shoulder, slumping into a full body lean by the fire, or with one arm over each himself and Violet, pulling them close. Each time he does it Zevran feels another mending stitch work its way through his tired old heart, and he wonders at the Wardens’ trust. 

_In the Crows, one does not have friends_. 

Zevran has held others close to his heart before, but not like this. Here, he is held to another’s heart for the first time he can remember in many years, he is shown care more honestly and with better intentions than were even given to him as a child. He has never been a very devout man, but he counts his blessings each night that he can count himself among friends. 

As the seasons change, so too does Violet. She grows livelier, happier despite the momentous tasks presented to her. She is excited by his assassin’s knowledge, and he teaches her tricks of his trade. She is a woman after his own heart where the art of battle is concerned, fighting with deception over strength, fashioning traps and poisons of her own design. He gives her the secrets of the Crows without any of the mistreatment; he always knew there was a better way. They craft together and he learns her person outside of the urgency of battle and bed: she is clever, outspoken and fierce, but she also blushes and stumbles over words that carry meaning. He is familiar with the psyche of the noncommittal - it has long been his own - but it is not him that she is shy for. When Alistair wraps an arm over her shoulder, they both blush. She laughs even when his jokes are bad, stares after him with looks that are longing. 

Alistair’s love for Violet is the most unmistakable thing Zevran has ever seen. He saves her life several times each day, blushes at her every touch and flirting comment, runs his hands through his hair ten times per sentence when the two talk. If he is jealous, however, he does not show it, and Zevran is not too proud to admit that he finds himself smitten with the warrior’s honour. 

Still, whatever great privilege Violet has given him in her invitations to her tent, Zevran knows that he is standing in the way of a legendary love. He asks Violet one night if they shouldn’t stop their affair. It is an easy thing for him, to talk unabashedly about such matters. He notes how the two Wardens are constantly stealing glances, teases Violet for her blatant crush. How could she have been so bold with him, a treacherous assassin, yet she will not simply court the man who clearly pines for her? He is not so unreluctant to have their pleasurable encounters cease, but both she and Alistair show him such great decency that he cannot simply stand by. 

She brushes off his suggestions with a shrug. Alistair was a Templar, she explains like it is better than a noblewoman, it means he’s never had a lover before, and would hardly want one such as her. Zevran doesn’t mean to insult her when he laughs, but the idea that Alistair would not jump for her if asked takes several minutes to stop being funny. She sighs, admits she knows that he might, but that she isn’t sure that he should. Zevran is shocked by these revelations. She is so much more like him than he thought. She has found life where she expected death, and she does not think she deserves it. She is a nervous woman, pretending to be bold. 


	3. Pt. III: LOVE

Alistair has never felt about anyone the way he feels about Violet. She is beautiful, funny, smart and so skillful. She fights like a tactician; efficient, full of tricks. He wishes he could talk to her of weaponry and poisons, traps and explosives, the way that Zevran does. He should be jealous of the assassin, and in the beginning he is indeed suspicious, but Zevran makes him laugh, reaches out with comradery that feels real. He sees it when Zevean flirts with Violet, he feels it when she flirts back. But he feels it too when Zevran offers him a pat on the back, a playful nudge, a shoulder to lean on after a long day. Violet flirts with him even after he knows she has been in Zevran’s tent. The two rogues stop their affections for a while, and much later she refers to this as the time she courted him.

He doesn’t know why his friends have stopped visiting one another’s tents, but nothing else changes as the days go on. Violet touches his arm when they talk, seeks him out to be the audience to her jokes, listens to his thoughts. She tells him more about who she is, he hears her heartache and his heart _breaks._ She comforts him when he feels alone, makes him believe that their quest can succeed. She takes his hand sometimes, kisses him on the cheek.

The most comfortable way to end the day is leaning on Zevran, entangled with Violet. Alistair can’t be bothered to feel flustered when he is tired. Violet always finds a way to spread over them, and he pulls them both close to keep warm by the fire. It feels relaxing to have both of them nearby. During the day, sometimes he catches himself looking at Zevran and he wonders. He looks at Violet and he knows.

When Alistair is nervous about his feelings he talks to Zevran, he knows he shouldn’t, but Zev is so understanding, and he is also so smooth. He is getting more used to leaning against Zevran’s body at the fireside with Violet in his lap. As he asks for help, he is remembering how secure it feels between them both.

Zevran gives him advice freely, tells him he sees how he and Violet cherish one another.

“Do not be afraid to kiss her, here, you may practice on me!” No expectations or intentions, he teases, but his smile is hopeful.

At first, Alistair scoffs. But then, he wonders, could he?

“May – may I?”

Zevran smiles and leans into him, leads him to his mouth with the breath of a kiss. Zevran’s lips pull lightly at his. They stop for one heartbeat of a moment - his lips are soft and full - and then fall away. It feels like flying.

Violet looks at him and his heart stops. She gives him a playful kiss on the cheek, he gives her a rose. She kisses him deeply, arms pulling him down to her, pressing her whole body into his. It feels like an embrace around his soul.

They lean on one another in the evenings. Violet takes him to bed. He is in love with her. He is in love with her. He is in love with her. He is –

He is leaning between Zevran’s legs, and Zevran strokes his hair. Violet looks up from his lap, and suggests they go to bed together with all the tact of a sailor. Zevran grins, answers smoothly: he’s game. Alistair’s skin is hot. His blood is rushing through his temples, down his body. He is thinking about Zevran’s kiss, and his legs, and how he feels in the crook of his arm by the fire after a long day: hard, strong, but lean. He thinks about Violet’s gasps when he lies with her; her smooth skin and soft curves, her kisses on his neck.

Violet squeezes his hand. “No pressure, I love you.”

“You know Alistair, I care for you as well.” Zevran says with ease, “I may tease, but I would never truly wish to make you uncomfortable.”

No. The three of them like this? That _is_ his comfort. He wants Zevran’s fingers in his hair, Violet’s head in his lap.

“I am comfortable.” He says, as if it is an excuse not to get up. “If you move from that spot I’ll have nothing to lean on. Merry makes a far worse pillow.” He cracks a very poor joke, and Zevran chuckles.

They sit watching the fire for a while, and in the silence he pictures it. Violet notices him growing from where she lies in his lap, subtly places a hand beneath the waist of his trousers, resting gently on his hip. He wants her, he wants them both. He swallows, decides to be brave

“I’m comfortable.” He says again.

\----

The first time that Violet took him into her tent, he could barely breathe. She had _experience_ , and he had felt a right fool. But he had told her that he loved her, and she had returned it and shown him so much of herself. She had guided him at first, but the rest unfolded naturally, and soon he was sure that he could spend his life with nothing but her warm body in his bed at night. Violet makes him feel _right_ , like he is who he should be. Holding her, touching her, pressing into her, it all feels so instinctive and natural. 

Somehow, kissing Zevran is just as easy. Somehow, nothing feels out of place when all three of them begin to undress. He doesn’t remember when he stopped seeing Violet and Zevran’s affections with jealousy, but he knows that Zevran’s smile warms him as Violet’s does, but differently; like a warm blanket, instead of a fire. Violet and Zev are comfortable in sex, happy in their bodies and proud of their skill. He does not have that pride, and he is embarrassed even still by how much he does not know, but he is not ashamed nor even really nervous, when it comes to being _with_ them. 

Zev talks, compliments and questions to help move things along. He is cautious when he leans in for a kiss, and allows Alistair to be the one to close the gap. Alistair feels like he is melting, heat rushes through him as Zevran's tongue flicks into his mouth, as his teeth pull lightly at his lower lip. He is so hard when he feels Violet's touch, he has to struggle against himself to keep from pulling her on top of him and losing himself straight away. 

She licks him, teases and kisses at his thighs, while Zevran still kisses his neck. His hands move across Zevran's body; his smooth chest, his tattoo and scar laden arms, his firm ass. Zev guides his hands lower and pulls away with another question to make sure. Alistair responds by wrapping his hand around him eagerly, and filling his mouth with another deep kiss.

Everything feels dreamlike and fantastic, he is half sure he will wake up at any moment, forced to satisfy himself alone. Before he knows it, Violet is on top of him, and Zev is behind her, his lips running the length of her spine. Violet straddles him and he is kissing her with love in every desperate breath. She slides him into herself, squeezes him between her thighs and moans into his lips. He kisses her jaw, her ears, her neck. She grinds into him slowly at first, and her moans and cries grow louder as she begins to press harder and faster into him. She bites at his lips while she comes, and Zevran is leaving little purple spots down her neck. 

Then Zevran is moving his attention back to Alistair. Violet pauses, drinks water and sighs deeply, winks at Alistair with a satisfied smile, and then she positions herself behind him, hugging her arms over his chest and pressing her body against him as she wraps around him to kiss his lips and neck. Zevran's tongue is between his legs, his hands joining in as he moves his mouth up and down the shaft of Alistairs's cock. His fists clench around sections of Zev's long, soft hair as he comes. Zev looks up at him proudly, still wiping him from his mouth, and Alistair grabs him to pull his lips into his. 

He tries not to feel intimidated as he focuses on Zev. He knows how to touch himself, but he needs to repay the pure euphoria he feels. Violet joins him, kissing both his body and Zev's, guiding his hands, kissing the tips of his fingers as they wrap around Zev's thighs. He closes his eyes and feels Zevran's fingers dig through his hair, massaging his scalp and running down to his shoulders. He presses his hips into everything Alistair does, urges him on with vocal enthusiasm and Antivan curses. He pulls him up to his mouth to kiss him while he comes, and Violet wraps her arms around them both before all three of them fall back onto the pile of strewn about blankets, clothes, and pillows on the tent floor. 

As they lie together naked and panting, Alistair starts to chuckle. To think, he might have been a Templar. 

"You seem well pleased Alistair, I am glad." Zevran rolls onto his side to face him and grins. "Give me but a moment, and I'd be happy to show you some more gratification." He winks. 

Alistair sighs. "I think I can die happy now, actually. Which is a good thing, since you've just killed me." 

"Ah, death by pleasure. I do think it should be my hallmark, no?" Zevran replies with a smile. "And what about you my dear Violet, can I tempt you with an offer of more?" 

Violet is still taking deep breaths, lying close to him on his other side. He watches how her chest rises and falls with her breathing, perfect round peaks tipped with hard pointed nipples. She smiles, sitting up beside him, and asks him if he minds, as if watching her come a second time wouldn't provide him fodder for daydreams to last him the rest of his life. 

Alistair is still lying on his back, and Violet straddles him again as Zevran moves up behind her. Zev places his hands firmly on Violet's waist, and pulls her onto him with a quick, strong tug. She gasps, and bends her body over Alistairs chest, arching her back and pressing her hips into Zev rhythmically as he thrusts in and out of her. Alistair kisses the gasps from her lips, then lifts himself up to reach her breasts. He flicks at her hard nipples with his tongue and she lets out a long moan of erotic anguish, he wraps his lips around the tip of her breast and she throws her head back. He is hard again, she is grabbing him, Zev is behind her, fucking her, gripping her waist and kissing her shoulders. Alistair comes again with Violet's hand around him. She takes his hand and presses it into her as Zev's thrusts grow harder, and she moans as her thighs squeeze and her body tenses and relaxes again with a shudder. Zevran fucks her harder still, she kisses Alistair's mouth in a desperate attempt to stifle her cursing, and then Zev thrusts hard, slower, deeper, and pulls himself out with a satisfied declaration of praise to the Maker. 

They collapse again, piled on top of one another now. Once they can breathe again and towels and canteens of water are found with which to clean, they remake the tent floor into something more like an extended bed roll. Alistair holds Violet and Zevran both to his chest, and in the morning he wakes with them still wrapped around him.

He tugs them both closer, looking to Violet's delicate sleeping face and to Zevran's strong, scarred arms. He is in love with them. 


	4. Pt. IV: COMMITMENT

They tell each other everything. 

The quest takes them to Denerim, and it is time, finally, to end things. The enemy that took Violet’s family has taken the Queen, and even if she is Loghain’s daughter she deserves not that fate. Before she knows it, Violet is planning the thing that she has thirsted for since the last night of her old life: vengeance. A black pit forms in her stomach, and she is _terrified_. 

Alistair knows already of how her family was betrayed. She told him after she realised that she loved him, and it had been the first time he had seen her cry. Zevran knows too that she has had something ripped away, but neither of them have heard the story in anything more than a few short, broken sentences. Now she turns pale when she hears the Arl’s name, tightens up in panic as bloody images run through her mind. 

Zevran finds her bent over maps in the dead of night, a candle burning a down to its base as she commits her enemy’s house to memory, twisting fingers through her darkly dyed hair with the same restlessness he sees when she wakes shaking from her dreams. He fetches Alistair from sleep, and his protestations quiet when he is given the reason.   
  
“Something is wrong with the Warden.” Zevran claims, and for all the softness he has been shown, he is still so confused by Alistair’s quickness in coming to sympathy. They pull up chairs by Violet’s side, press hands into her palms and kisses onto her forehead before she talks. She tells them both of the visions she cannot escape, hands trembling and voice breaking apart over Orin’s name. It is the first time she has said it aloud since she heard herself wailing it over his lifeless corpse. 

Alistair’s face settles into an angry shape, his eyes hard and his lips a straight line. He holds to Violet’s hand like it is welded to him, and clenches his other fist with his vow: he would kill a hundred Arls for her, burn the entire country down. But as his eyes move over Violet the blue of them glistens with the film of held-back tears, and care curves into his brows. 

Zevran holds Violet’s other hand in quiet contemplation, the evil treatment of children is something he is too familiar with seeing, and he is uneasy with how well he can picture Violet’s pain. He has taught her every art he knows that could aid in her revenge, but he finds himself now wishing to offer something more, something kinder and longer lasting. She knows already that she has his blades, but does she know that she has his loyalty, his trust, his heart? That he would build a home around her if he could, and fill it with nothing but warm cooking and pleasant music, that he would read her poetry until her dreams are at peace? 

"I love you both", she says to them once her tears are dry, and that night they sleep in one bed wrapped warm in soft sheets and with bodies pressed tight together, binding something between them that is stronger than any bad dream. 

Violet remembers stories from her childhood of valiant knights, where righteousness was bred in forgiveness and mercy, and she has lived as closely by them as she could while preparing her country to face the Blight. But whoever wrote those stories of honour must never have known the taste of pure hate, because the relief that strikes into her soul as she watches her blade run bloody over her family’s killer’s throat leaves her lungs more open than they were, and as she stares down the life that leaves his eyes she takes some back for herself, and breathes. 

\----

They tell each other everything. 

Taliesin finds him in Denerim, cornered in an alleyway with his Warden lovers and an important errand on his mind. He is not ready for the confrontation, even if he knew it would come. The Crows do not leave betrayals unanswered. He knows that Taliesin was never truly his friend, because there are no friends in the Crows, but he has never shaken the guilt of losing his favour. Taliesin taunts him with an offer of return, as though this rich life he has found could be thrown away for money, and when Violet quips beside him that she would be dead first his speech halts in his throat.   
  
“Zevran doesn’t need the Crows.” He hears Alistair affirm from his side, and for the first time he is truly certain that he does not. Tattoos and scars over his skin have marked him for them for longer years than he cares to count, the Crows are an identity etched into his soul with poison and sharp blades. Taliesin mocks him, but the laughter falls flat at his feet. He cannot touch him now. This time, betraying the Crows feels nothing like betrayal at all, but like the final steps into a world that is lit with honour and trust. He doesn’t need the Crows, he has found a purpose in something that was previously only real in songs. 

When it is done his mind reels in its freedom. He did not realise just how bound his hands still were before this final rebellion, and now that they are free they can’t seem to stop shaking. He offers Violet an earring, and she wraps her hands around his to take it up into a kiss. He asks her what he _is_ now, and she tells him that he can be hers always, if he wants. He wants to give something to Alistair too, his heart is so swollen with gratitude for the Warrior’s protection that it preoccupies his thoughts, and he feels guilty again for existing and for daring to take love from them that the world would sooner see shared between noblewomen and princes alone. He is so lost in this perilous thought that he almost doesn’t hear it when Alistair presses his mouth into his hair with a soft whisper.

“We love you.” He breathes the words with the confidence of a King. Zevran looks to Violet and sees her nod sharply, wrapping her own arms over his head and pulling him to her heart. 

\----

They tell each other everything. 

By the time they reach Denerim, Violet and Zevran know already that Alistair is the King’s bastard. He told them in Redcliffe, before it had meant anything more to his life than an awkward upbringing. _Partners_ , that was what Violet had called the two of them from the start, and they had been. How he had needed a partner, then. How it had saved him. 

He knows now that partnership has saved them all, that together they are strong enough to topple empires, and he has confidence that they can save both the country and the world. He chooses to take the Kingship that their fight has won for him with a sword to Loghain’s heart. But killing the man who betrayed his only family brings him no joy. The satisfaction comes from standing tall before a court that would never have found him worthy on his own, backed by heroes braver than any who fought in Loghain’s foolish civil war. He tells the court that Violet will be his queen and the people approve, satisfied mutterings follow them out of the Landsmeet into a country ready to be united. 

Violet is happy to take on duty with him, she looks at him proudly after he kisses her. That she loves him is a truth he never thought he could so surely believe, but he is doubtless and happy with her in his arms. In the evening by the firelight of the castle’s great and comfortable sitting room he finds Zevran reading, and sits next to him to break the silence that his other love has held since he claimed his crown. 

“Listen, Zev,” some things will never change, no matter how sure he becomes of his place in the world, and he stumbles over his words with reddened cheeks and thumbs that twist into each other with worry. Zevran looks up with a quiet smile, and the sadness in it makes Alistair want to take everything back. He envisions a world where he can take them all away to live out the rest of their days in easy peace, free of responsibility or patriotic duty. “I… I don’t want you to leave, after.” He says it like a plea, and Zevran’s face changes, taking on a look of surprise that leaves his mouth open but wordless. He has never seen Zevran stunned into silence before, and he continues pushing his explanatory words out quickly into the air. “I know Vi wouldn’t either, but…” Zevran’s lips remain parted and his breathing is quick, Alistair takes some of his breaths away into a kiss, wraps his arms around his body and pulls him snug into his side. He kisses him again and again, unable to find a better way to say _stay_. 

“Oh, my charming prince,” Zevran purrs when he finally pulls away, his face flush but his honeyed words regained, “the things I would do for you.” 

“Shut up.” Alistair mutters with a smile, breathing in the scent of Zevran’s skin as he settles into him. “Just don’t go.” 

\----

They tell each other everything. 

The discussion over whether or not Alistair should try to save himself and Violet with Morrigan’s magic is fast and easy. Of course he should, dark consequences be damned, he is not going to let one of them _die_. Violet brings up the topic with humour, and Alistair finds himself laughing into comfortableness with the idea. He has never slept with anyone else before, but there is no home for discomfort in him now. It isn’t such a terrible thing, ritualistic and far from his tastes though it is. Zevran and Violet greet him after with humour and drink, and he shakes his head at the fact that his loves - his future Queen most notably - are such bawdy rogues. 

\----

Zevran cries at the wedding, hoping that Leliana can’t see. She can’t, for she is crying harder than he, but Wynn squeezes his hand from beside him in the pew, and he laughs to himself at the strangeness of a life after war. The companions separate, but Zevran stays. He is made a room in the castle, and Violet gives him some title that will let him come and go as he pleases. Before long, he is called to Antiva to settle business of his own, but his letters reach them littered with erotic prose, and he visits as often as he can. 

The world becomes restless again with time, and a Warden’s work is never done, even if she is a Queen. When Alistair writes that Violet is leaving to find them a cure, Zevran returns to Ferelden with all the speed he can gather. She parts on promises, leaves them with gifts and kisses and teary-eyed repetitions of her love. Zevran stays long at Alistair’s side, until he is an open secret in the castle walls. The halls have less life in them now, and her portrait never fails to elicit from him a longing sigh, but he has the confidence of love in his bones, and Alistair’s unshakable faith keeps the whole country proud. 

They will be united again and find the peace they deserve, for now that each of them knows that it is what they deserve, there is no force that could hold them. 


End file.
